Wallflower
by Trin2
Summary: The previously unrevealed events of Squall's past. PG 13 for language.


A/N: This fic would happen before Squall becomes a SeeD. I don't really have much to comment on this, since... uhm, I actually just sat down one night and wrote four-fifths of it in one go without pause. So if there're some mistakes, please point them out to me. Thanks. 

wallflower

I am going to go mad.

I swear I am. 

Honestly truthfully _tell me the truth _I swear to God _you asshole you motherfucker _I am not lying.

I did not push her _fucking shithead _to the edge _you're gonna die for this _you did. 

You absolute _ass_.

I really liked Maya. Honestly I did. I liked her in that horribly loyal, achingly true, terribly inborn love that comes from not having anyone to love and a life of no security. I would have died for her. 

Unfortunately, she kicked the bucket before I did. 

She was one of those perpetually in the shadow of her peers. She wore the same clothes, applied the same make-up, carefully checked for split hairs the exact same way they did. But still she -- the _itness_ -- of her entire being shone through. It was as natural ice cube being cold. To stop it would be as utterly meaningless as trying to catch the wind in a bag and expecting to eat it for dinner. 

She did not understand it. I didn't, either. But I felt that if I somehow _had _that... if I somehow had it radiating from my core of being the same way she did -- I would be happy.

Maya hid it away, she squirreled it into her subconscious. It defined her, it made her different and more special than those she admired, the glossy movie stars trapped in their fake world. It shunted her to one side, a bright and glowing corner of the room, whilst the majority hid in the darkness and hated those in the light.

Her. She. It.

They.

I suppose, that day when she was by the Training Centre and crying, I saw her for the first time and saw how beautiful she was. And I always thought she was always second-best the day she was born, one of those masses of gossipy students clogging the hallways like fat in an obese overeater's artery. She occasionally piped up sometimes, and at her words the group would fall silent. At a loss, and then they would return to their previous conversation as if she had never aired her thoughts in the first place, and she would listen and be mildly content with the fact that they accepted her into her group -- not welcomed her with open arms and wide smiles, but with a small gesture and indifferent faces. 

It was acceptance. Any kind of acceptance would do, just as long as the feeling was there. 

_You feel good and you look like you should, but you could never make us proud._

It's a line from a song, I think. 

I was watching her crying and then she stopped, glaring at me. Moments of weakness. 

"What are _you _doing here?" she asked defensively. The tears had stopped, replaced by hard anger. She would never cry in front of other people. 

"Watching you," I said. I wasn't lying. I like to think that I don't lie. 

"What are you, a stalker or something?" she threw back at me. She got up and stared at me. 

"It's him, isn't it?" I asked.

I knew who _him _was. _Him _was the most popular boy on campus, smart, handsome, all-around athlete and perpetual nice guy. Maya had been best friends with him since they first came to Garden. Since they were running around in fucking diapers, I heard from the whispers in the cafeteria as girls glanced to Maya casting longing gazes at the boy. 

"None of your fucking business." She stared and I could hear her breathe. 

Ragged, the sobs aching to be aired out, punctuated by hesitations and breathy catches. I think wanted to kiss her. I think she wanted to kiss me.

She didn't, and brushed past me, biting her lip so hard it bled.

I don't think she ever loved me. _Liked_, yes. But I don't think I ever really, honestly loved her. I think we were both sort of reflecting the love we thought the other had for the other at each other, continuously, back and forth, like a macabre tennis match. There would be a stolen kiss there, a whispered, untruthful "_I love you_" here, and sooner or later there had to be a foul where the ball stepped over the line, ever so slightly... In the beginning, we deluded ourselves.

Sometimes we just held each other and heard each other breathe. I could tell you now, the way her breath would trace its way over my skin. I could tell you the colour of her eyes, amber with brownish glints. And I'm positive she could tell you mine. How many times had she told me that my eyes were so goddamn fucking beautiful, in between heavy, wet kisses. In between the times where she temporarily forgot I was Squall and not Alex. 

Once I watched Alex, _Him_, flit around campus with his eternal bevy of girls and boys, throwing fake punches at the guys, smiling at the girls. I wondered how much it hurt Maya inside, to see every smile and grin directed towards a girl that would plaster itself across his perfect sculptured face that looks as if it had been cast out of silver. It must have been cast out of silver, the way his inherently natural happiness radiated forth and lassoed everyone within a ten metre radius towards him, like an invisible magnetic field of Alexness. He had... what do you call it? charisma.

I didn't love Maya. I only liked her, and I think that some part of me knew that, even in the beginning. The _"I love you"_s were something that was expected, something that had to be whispered once in a while, so that it could feel more real, so we could show our doubting consciences that it wasn't just mindless physicality. Saying those words was more of a thing I had to do, do you understand? So that, at the end of the day, when I'm a jaded, cynical adult among the rest of my jaded, cynical ilk, I could turn to them, compare notes, and say, "Oh, teenage love-that's-really-like? Been there, done that." Just another quota to be filled in, on the mental checklist of every teenager. _Squall Leonhart has liked a girl who he thought he was in love with. _It has a nice, solid ring to it.

Oh, I thought she was beautiful. She seemed so much more infinitely beautiful when she was sad, like a saint weeping tears for the death that plagues her country, not for a guy with an asshole complex who seemed completely, blissfully oblivious of her obvious want. It would seem that _it _shone out more when she was sad, and she was sad when I first saw her. As if she was made to be sad, to be broken, to cry. 

She was very often sad. When she was sad, she just slid down into the nearest seat and looked downwards, so that if she cried, she could cover the stains with her feet. And she would just stay like that for hours upon hours, like an alabaster statue. Until I tilted her chin up, my body aching for just human contact, something that I would not normally give myself. She was a sort of indulgence, a whore, maybe? to be used and then thrown away. 

I sound so heartless it's just wrong. But I was her slut as well; the silent, tall one in black leather, with a blank face, perfect for her to tack onto the face of her real love with kisses, like sticking a poster on a wall. 

I understand now that we were both looking for something. She wanted a substitution, I wanted an addiction. Something to fill my mind with, so that my brain couldn't process anything but remembering what happened last night, until Quistis looked at me strangely and had to tell me off. I just wanted to remember how much an addiction hurt, like Ellone, so I could examine the wounds and tell myself, _see? it hurt. Don't do it again._ I am such a masochist.

When we met in the hall, our eyes met and then slid nervously off each other, onto the floor, trying not to remember what happened last night, or the night before, or in the space of classes in the janitor's closet.

When I kissed her, if felt like _it _was spreading through me. It felt like I would see _it _running through my veins if I looked. Until we both glowed with _it_. Made me happy, that I was multi-tasking. Initiating a hurt to remind myself, and enjoying myself.

One day, when we were a lot more clear about the entire relationship; while I was sprawled across one of the Quad benches with her sprawled with me, she sat up and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. I shrugged, and watched the student, who seemed oblivious to all this, do elegant figure-eights on roller blades. 

"Squall? Do you love me?" she asked suddenly. "Because I don't love you, and it would be unfair to you if you were in love with me and I told you this."

"No, I'm not in love with you," I answered, examining my hand in order to avoid her earnest gaze. Damn. My hand didn't seem shot through with glowing brightness. 

"That's good," she answered, and bent over to kiss me, closing her eyes, to mercifully shield me from her gaze.

I felt my entire body shudder as _it _pumped through me again. Human contact.

From somewhere very distant, I heard the scritching of rollerblade wheels on granite as the skater twirled once more.

Two minutes later, she straightened up again. 

"Do you honestly care about what happens to me?" she asked.

"I do," I said, exasperated. "But not in that gushy, I-love-you type of way. More of a concern, because I'm..."

"Fond," she said, automatically. She was always good with words. 

"Yeah. Fond of you."

"Like a cat."

"Why all these questions?"

"Oh. Nothing. Did you know I had a cat?"

More and more exasperating by the minute.

"No."

"It died of anal cancer."

"_So?_"

"So? So nothing." She sounded like she was trying to convince herself of something. She stood up from the bench and walked some distance, before suddenly turning around, as if she had forgotten about something. "Bye, Squall!" she yelled.

I nodded absently and waved a hand, and watched as the rollerblading student do a fancy flip in mid-air. After a while, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. I picked up some habits from Maya. 

The next day, in first period (Weapons) I noticed an empty seat where Maya usually was. The PA system interrupted Instructor Trepe's lecture about how one should _never_, _ever _use the Garden Network to post test answers up. Why? Because it was _wrong_. I keep on waiting for her to get fired.

"_Students... we regret to inform you that last night Maya Cohen passed away last night. Can we all take a moment of silence."_

One minute passed. 

"Will Squall Leonhart please proceed to the office now, thank you. That will be all."

In the office, with my heart pounding so hard it was ready to leap out my throat and crawl the walls. There's a heady mix of shock in my bloodstream that Maya's dead. One part of me was in a corner gibbering and raising his arms over his head; another was clinically observing that I couldn't kiss her anymore and wondering what the fuck I did wrong. Alex was standing stiffly next to me. He tensed further as Headmaster Cid started to pace the room restlessly, like a caged lion fed too much on casual feeding by the visitors.

"Maya -- forgive me for the casual use of her name-- slashed her wrists at around 11 pm last night. Her roommate came in at 2 am from a rave," he allowed himself a quiet smile at that, "needless to say she'll get punished for breaking curfew, but that's another matter. Doctors from the Balamb Hospital came in to aid Dr. Kadowaki because Maya lost too much blood to be transported to the Hospital, but we lost her at around 4 am. By the way, Maya's parents have not been contacted yet, since they live in Trabia. She slashed her wrists vertically."

Some part of me observed that vertical was the normal way to go. How predictable. 

"Now, rumour has it that you, Squall," he gestured to me. "Was her supposed boyfriend. Were you?"

I turned my weak, faltering gaze to frost. It was time to lie, and frost elicited no room for further prodding of the real truth. "Yes."

I could practically feel Alex ball his fists further, so hard his fingernails probably drove themselves into his fist.

"And you, Alex, were her best friend?" 

"Yes." 

"Did any of you observe any... out of the ordinary behaviour from Maya the days before her death?" Cid asked, stopping momentarily, slipping his calloused hands in his pockets.

_Liar, liar, pants on fire... _"No," I said, eyes not wavering. 

__

"No," Alex said. He hadn't seen her for the past week, too caught up in his petty little world of popularity to pay attention to the girl who wanted him so much, too caught up to notice that the girl who had been his best friend was taking me as a substitution for him. His eyes flicked over to me, hard, unrelenting and so sure of himself. The brave are so firm in their beliefs.

"Please, sir, could I have a word with Squall alone?" he asked softly. 

Headmaster Cid looked startled. "Oh... of course. I'm sure both of you have a lot to talk about." He stepped out respectfully. If he wore a hat, he would have tipped it, not that I expect the Headmaster to be a slave to etiquette.

As soon as the ornate doors slid shut with a hiss, Alex one-handedly grabbed me by the fur collar of my jacket and drove me up against the wall, far too quickly for me to retaliate, raising me a few centimetres off the carpet. 

"You made her suicidal, didn't you?" he hissed angrily, firm in righteous conviction.

"Ngh." _I'm so sorry, but I'm afraid your hand is around my throat too tightly for me to formulate a coherent answer._

"You complete bastard. You were just _using _her for your own kicks, weren't you?"

"Gnh." _Why don't you ask her that?_

Lack of oxygen was getting to my head, and I could only draw hissy breaths in the spaces in my windpipe where his fingers had failed to grasp. Everything was getting very blurry around the edges, except for his words, which seemed jagged and sharp in their harshness. Curses, rage-filled threats, barely disguised pleas that it wasn't his fault filled the air, all aimed at me. His grip was loosening slowly. 

I drew enough air to wheeze, "She loved you so much, do you know that? You complete ass."

He didn't relinquish his grip, but loosened it enough for me to breathe more easily. 

"It's not my fault," he whispered, with wide-eyed blue irises. So much like mine. No wonder she cried out my name sometimes. 

"It is," I said, my eyes tearing from the burning sensation of prolonged pain, in my throat. "She wanted you so bad, she had to have a whore to take it all out on, so she wouldn't suddenly run up to you and proclaim undying love for you. Me."

Alex looked downwards, panting from exertion. He ran his free hand through his dusky brown hair. 

"Do you want to know the number of times she said your name instead of mine?" I asked ruthlessly, feeling an odd sensation of resentment towards him. Oblivious popular guy, whom I would never be. After all, I know too much to have the courage it takes to be endlessly brave without thinking of the consequences. 

"Shut UP!" he screamed suddenly, jerking me against the wall, knocking whatever breath I had managed to take in. My feet flailed and kicked wildly, and the tears fell from his face without stopping.

At that moment, I saw. Saw how he had the thing that had made Maya seem so fucking attractive in him as well, how it blossomed like a flower fed on sad-water when he cried. He was beautiful, just like her. And he hid it, as well. The most popular boy on campus hid it. I stifled a hysterical laugh, because it would have taken the rest of my air.

Instead, I shakily leaned forward to plant a kiss on his perfect cheek, which tasted wet and salty from his tears. 

"You're beautiful, you see?" I said, as if I was explaining something vastly important. His face faded in and out of my vision. "Just like her. So fucking pretty."

He asked harshly, manly instincts kicking in once more, "What, you a fucking faggot or something?"

"No," I said, as he released me suddenly. I dropped to the floor and gasped for breath, watching him fiercely rub at his eyes.

"You look good and feel like you should, but you could never make us proud," I told him, getting up and walking out of the office. In the reflected panels of the silvery doors, I caught sight of him staring at my back, tears flowing again, so much like a child hurt.

So, what was gained from all of this? A quota filled, a conquest to discuss with future friends, a dead girl and a boy with a broken heart. Enough proof for me to compound my theory three times over. The incident in the office has been over for a bit less than an hour, and I'm in my room, staring at myself in the full-length mirror in the closet door. I don't seem to glow anymore. It shouldn't surprise me, but it does. 


End file.
